


Associate Benefits (Part Three of Five)

by mresundance



Series: Associate Benefits (Libs AU) [3]
Category: AU - Fandom, The Libertines
Genre: AU, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-06
Updated: 2010-09-06
Packaged: 2017-10-11 13:23:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/112870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mresundance/pseuds/mresundance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU in which Peter and Carl work retail; Peter plays a cruel trick on Carl. Cameo by Didz. Fun for everyone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Associate Benefits (Part Three of Five)

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Don't know 'em. Dirty lies of a bored mind.

**Reckless Behavior**  
_Running, horseplay or being reckless causes accidents. Never act recklessly._* Carl's associate handbook wagged its metaphoric finger at him. He was in the breakroom, having decided to take an additional ten minutes for lunch after he had clocked back in.

This advisory from the same book that told him not to jump in the store and not to sleep on company time, or to swipe in or out 5 minutes early or late without the management stamp of approval. Whoever wrote these stupid company things and didn't go home howling laughter should be executed, Carl decided. And wished Peter was around because he would agree with Carl and they could think of fantastical ways to re-write the whole handbook.

"Sex: best in the backstock, but also . . ."

In his pocket, his mobile bleeped to tell him he had a text. Probably Annalisa. She had texted him every day over the last week (_do u in juniors in5?_ or _eat me out in my car? :) _, mingled with the occasional _hello gorgeous!_), and he was at a loss because he could never figure out how to text back. Carl had never gotten the hang of using the customer service computers, or the cash registers, much less the palm pilots with their complicated menus and asking for passwords all the time and then batteries that needed recharging. Once, one of the floor managers, Banny, had attempted to have him trained at the register. It had ended in a line that went all the way back to the toys and Carl hiding under the counter while customers hailed abuses down upon him and complained loudly or left. Peter had comforted him after, assuring him that he had other gifts in life.

"Like what?" Carl had snapped.

Peter had pursed his lips, thinking.

"You . . . pop your toeknuckles when you come."

"You noticed . . . ?" Carl had said at length.

"I . . . _heard_," Peter had said in that wry way of his.

He wished he could go to Peter with his texting issues. As it was, they hadn't been on speaking terms since Peter had stumbled upon Carl and Annalisa nearly a month gone. Not from lack of trying on Carl's part, either; Carl still wanted to explain to Peter, anyways. He owed him that, at least, even if they hadn't been – involved – or anything. But every time Carl had tried to say anything to Peter, from even a "Heya, you alright?" Peter's answer was a kind of silence that could only be replicated in the Antarctic, in the dead of midwinter, in the pit of night. At best it said nothing, at worst it said, I did not even know this – person – existed and why are they talking to _me_? For awhile Carl had deliberated clobbering Peter. During days of hanging shirts and strangely uninterested in the fawning of female patrons who asked him questions just to flirt with him, he had fantasized about tying Peter up and beating an acknowledgment out of him.

The rumor mill had been churning out words and tales, doing its own work. Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum severed (as if they were – an item!), seeing Kate and Annalisa, respectively. It was naughty and taboo enough to be much more interesting than rumors that Mick Jones, the regional VP of the company, wore a wig, or that Alan had backed into the Norwich store manager's car at the regional conference last week because he was jealous of the Norwich store's soaring sales. People gossiped and Carl ignored them and finally did have sex with Annalisa in the junior's dressing rooms, even if he found it less interesting than he thought it would be.

His first real date with Annalisa had entailed some clubbing, lots of alcohol, and waking up at hers the next morning and feeling like London Bridge had caved in on his head. But there was Annalisa, who was soft and sensual and fun, sleeping right next to him. She didn't cook but ordered takeaways and had an interesting collection of panties, none of which had mosquito netting or neon blue floss with green ruffles stapled to them. She danced and tumbled and twirled and did crossword puzzles and liked him with his pants off, which was okay.

Carl sighed and rubbed his temples, the headache of rage gathering. He had been waiting. He had. It was just. How long did Peter expect him to sit around on his bum? He had things to do, he was at _work_ for Chrissake, and anyways, what took him so long? Who did Peter think he was? He didn't even page or call to say, I'm coming or maybe not. Stupid git. Annalisa had showed up to shop on her day off and Carl knew she was there to seduce him, in all likelihood, and went with it. Because Peter wasn't showing up anyways.

What was he supposed to do when a beautiful woman had him helping her try on shoes and touching her smooth ankles and those shapely brown skinned legs? Had him nearly clambering into her lap?

He recalled her last night, at hers, when she had sauntered out of the bathroom in that black satin slip. Clearance, sure, but who worked here and bought anything over ten quid after a time? It had emphasized all the right dips and curves in her figure, her nipples outlined in the smooth fabric begging to be sucked. She had smiled her sultry smile and winked before teasing her way into bed with him. Straddling him and holding his face in her small hands, kissing him and whispering dirty, filthy, nonsense.

Oh _sod_ Peter, Carl thought, pulling out his mobile.   


*

  
Peter wished he had Carl. Instead he was babbling at Didz at the cash register while pretending to fold shirts. Didz was an odd looking fellow, with all that hair going everywhere, but good natured and a sympathetic ear in a sort of . . . daft way. Not a clever smartarsed Carl way, though.

"She said I was ugly! And then pretended to be sick and try and keep us from going out. Little brat."

Peter was speaking, of course, of his first date with Kate. It had taken all of two weeks to co-ordinate it, mostly because the babysitter had decided she was busy the first Thursday night that Pete and Kate had arranged. So he had showed up at her flat another week later with a rose and wearing a tie of all things, the only one he had, actually, but he had been hoping for brownie points for effort, and not because the tie had pink and grey and gold stripes.

Kate's daughter, one Lila, had answered and crossed her arms in a way that was uncannily like her mother's.**

"Well? What do you want?" Lila had demanded. Peter felt like he should be blindfolded and asked if he had any last requests.

"Uhm," he had began. "Hullo. I'm Peter. Is your mum at home?"

Lila had narrowed her eyes and looked absolutely serpentine.

"Maybe," she had said. "But you look ugly. I don't think mommy should go out with you tonight."

When Kate had appeared Lila had made a great show of grabbing her stomach and groaning loudly and saying she was gonna throw up while Peter made faces at her behind Kate's back. Kate had tsked and told her to go do her homework.

"Sorry, she tries to do this a lot. She just gets jealous, you know," Kate had said after they had settled in Kate's car.

"Naturally," Peter had said and noticed Kate giving him an odd sidelong glance that started to make him squirm.

"Excuse me," she had said, and, leaning in, had gently flipped up his collar and taken off his tie.

Up until that point, Peter had been wondering if it was worth it – the rose, the tie, the actually combing his hair and being somewhere on time, not to mention the waiting to see when they could even make it out. But with her smooth arms around his throat, the smell and nearness of her washing over him like a warm summer wind. She had smelled of dishsoap and some kind of dizzying perfume.

"That's nice," she had said, eyeing him as if he was something that was indeed very attractive.

Oh, it had been worth it.

He had thus sat through the buffet high on smitten. He had ignored the fact that it was seniors night and they were the only couple under 65 (collectively, if you added their ages); that fact that half the time Kate had been obscured behind a tower of food; Lila's repeated calls to Kate's mobile in which she squealed things like: "Moooommeeeeee, the sitter is mean and evil come home!", "Moooommeeee, the sitter gave me food poisoning and I'm turning blue come home!" and "Mooommeeeee, the sitter is a space alien and is going to kidnap meeee! Come home!" He had made Kate laugh and she had made him laugh and they had played a little footsie and he had hoped and hoped for a goodnight kiss and the offer of a second date.

"Have a nice day," Didz chirped to a customer and smiled at Peter and then turned back to looking at air and waiting for the next customer. Peter glared at Didz.

"Didz, what did I just say?"

"What? About what Peter?"

"Nevermind," Peter said to the shirts he wasn't folding. If Carl had been listening, he would've elbowed Peter then.

"Well? Did she snog you?"

"No," Peter would've said in a little voice. "But she did want to go out again."

"Bollocks. Next time take the initiative," the Carl in Peter's head snerked in that I am Carlos Ashley Raphael Barât and I Know Everything way Carl did from time to time.

"Like you?" Peter snapped, thinking of the CarlnAnnalisa Spit Exchange and Gropefest he had walked into last month, and then realized he was talking to air. Oh, sod Carl, he thought. It was over – whatever it had been – which was nothing. Peter wasn't going to waste air saying hullo to Carl, much less squander precious braincells thinking about him, missing how he smelled and sounded and felt and made Peter laugh. Peter had Kate anyways, who was fabulous and had golden hair and was _tall_ . . . ish, which is more than he could say for Carl.

He nonetheless imagined throwing an elbow into fantasy Carl's gut. Good way to wind the smirk, which Peter was imagining, out of Carl.

 

**Housewares, 169**  
"Housewares, dial 169. Housewares, 169," Carl paged from the shoes backroom. He needed someone to cover his calls during lunch-break. He had sifted and searched and begged and pleaded and found no-one. Half of his coworkers on the floor were sick and the other half were already on lunch. Which had left Peter, loping around in Housewares when not flirting with Kate. Carl had seen the bizarre bramble of Peter's hair floating over the shelves by the table linens earlier and felt a sharp, hollow ache right behind his breastbone.

"Housewares, dial 169. Housewares, 169," Carl barked impatiently when Peter didn't answer. Carl popped open the backroom door and peered in the general direction of Housewares. _I know you're over there and not helping old ladies find a casserole dish, you limey bastard._

"Hullo handsome," Annalisa swam into his vision and Carl yelped in surprise.

"Sorry," she said.

She wriggled into the backroom with him, pretending to accidentally rub her arse against his groin. Carl sighed and wondered if this woman ever tired of shagging. Didn't she ever want to just – cuddle? Talk about what was on telly? Take in a show that wouldn't involve a a) blowjob and/or b) fingering in the back rows of the theatre? Whatever happened to sitting around and enjoying the watery soda and picking popcorn kernels out of one's teeth?

"What're you doing?" he said by way of conversation.

"On freight. Stocking things, you know. Blah blah. But then I saw you were over here and thought I'd pop by. See how you were."

"Hungry. No one is on the floor to take my calls for lunch. Housewares, dial 169. Housewares, 169, please," Carl paged again, resenting he had added the "please". He might as well have gone to Peter crawling on his hands and knees.

"Oh, poor Carl. Is he not picking up?" Annalisa thumbed imaginary frown lines into his jowls, then ruffled his hair, which made his toes curl in delight.

"No," he sulked. He yanked the phone from the receiver and jabbed the PAGE button.

"Peter, dial 169. Peter, 169."

Dirty Name Paging. The last ditch effort that said, You arsehat, you didn't pick up the phone and now I am singling you out for blame so everyone will _hear_ and _know_ that you don't respond to pages.

He feigned a pout just for Annalisa, who giggled conspiratorially. She huddled in close, rubbing his collarbone. He nuzzled the crown of her head, enjoying the heady scent of her long dark hair: lilac shampoo and a bit of sweat. She started to lay kisses into his throat, rubbing his stomach in that cursory way, whispering in his ear in that sweet, cherubic voice she used to humor him. It made him laugh because it was obnoxious and ridiculously out of character for Annalisa.

Oh, Peter wasn't going to call back anyways, Carl thought, tilting her chin up and kissing her just lightly.  


*

  
That's what Carl thought and that's not what happened. Peter was folding napkins just because he could and it was something to do when he heard Carl page. In a moment of deliberation that not even Peter was completely sure about the doings in his head (who could? given that he heard whispers sometimes, and then saw . . . . digits . . . but that wasn't often, aside from the alter egos who sounded like that fucking James Cameron, lately a lot of Kate, and the words, always the words that cluttered his brain, shivering and jiving helter skelter - he sometimes thought he should try and catch some of those and put them down on paper, proper like – given that Peter was never always sure of what his mind decided for him . . . ), he was humored by the idea of picking up and pestering Carl.

Peter picked up a phone and dialed 169.

"Yes?" Carl snarled from the other line. There was huffing and puffing and dearie me, Peter thought he heard Annalisa's voice protesting the background. Was he cursed with always blundering in on them in some way? Doomed to being tormented by visions of CarlnAnnalisa roiling around together, naked, Carl's gleaming muscles rippling and that ass . . .

"Who is this?" Carl said. "Peter?"

Peter yawned into the receiver.

"You asshole," Carl said. "Anna – just give me a second, yeah? –"

Peter made a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat and listened to Carl argue with Anna. She was whimpering something in a crooning baby voice that reminded Peter of his mother cooing over him or his sisters when they were afraid or hurt as children. The same kind of voice used on puppies and creatures without enough wits to know that doors didn't open by magic just because one sat and stared longingly at it. He felt suddenly very ill.

Then something Cunning and Evil scuttled through that mind of his, and he wasn't sure where that came from either. He very surreptitiously pressed the PAGE button.

"Honey-bear, I was just trying to give you some snuggles and make you feel better," Annalisa announced to the store. "You didn't like the belly wub wubs?" Carl mumbled something.

"I know Peter's been very cruel to you lately, sweetheart. You deserve better, poor Carlos, my big, lovely -"

"What's that on the intercom?" Carl's voice was probably echoing in his ears. Peter felt a kind of triumph, red and hot, lance through him.

There was a long silence. A hiss and then the sound of a receiver being slammed down.

Peter whistled and applauded himself for a job well done.

 

\------------------------------  
* Sadly from a real associate handbook. This same handbook, on the front page, also reads: This page left blank intentionally. *Sigh.*  
** Clearly I fudged her age and made her older. That's part of the fun of AU. I get to make up _even more_ bs than usual. :D

**edit:** I made a few edits to the scene with Annalisa cooing at Carl. It never felt right for her to just be actually babytalking, which is how I had it originally.


End file.
